


Bad Idea

by arthur_pendragon



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: (not the genre), Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Blazer Kink?, But Both Are Above the Age of Consent, Daydreaming, Fantasy, If You Squint - Freeform, Kissing, M/M, Nothing Sexual Happens Anyway, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-05-06 00:44:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14630475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arthur_pendragon/pseuds/arthur_pendragon
Summary: Bad idea. It’s a really bad idea.It hasn’t stopped Merlin from doing it anyway.(Merlin takes advantage of a free period to steal into his teacher's empty office.)





	Bad Idea

**Author's Note:**

> for [this prompt](https://kinksofcamelot.livejournal.com/1806.html?thread=262670#t262670) at Kinks of Camelot.

Bad idea. It’s a really bad idea.

It hasn’t stopped Merlin from doing it anyway.

The door to Mr Pendragon’s office closes behind him with a snick; he locks it for good measure. It’s lunchtime and Merlin saw Mr Pendragon sitting with the rest of the teachers, keeping an eye on some rowdy sixth-formers, so there’s nearly no chance he’ll be caught in here, humiliated and unable to look Mr Pendragon in the eye ever again.

It’s a tiny office; Merlin’s school isn’t very well-funded, so the furnishings are old and in that particular condition of being shabby but only slightly needing repair. Doesn’t matter. Merlin’s really only concerned with Mr Pendragon’s desk, more so his chair, and definitely the blazer hanging over the back of it, tempting and probably smelling of Mr Pendragon’s sweat—it’s a hot day outside, after all. Merlin had been counting on it.

Heart thumping wildly in his chest, Merlin uses the heels of his feet to get his shoes off at the entrance, and sneaks over to the wrinkled-leather chair that’s probably got a squeaky wheel that annoys Mr Pendragon whenever he has to sit here and mark all the rubbish his students call homework.

Mr Pendragon is a new teacher, in that he’s been in his profession for perhaps a year, very young and very accessible, yet so very out of Merlin’s reach that Merlin sometimes wants to punch himself for being so in _credibly_ stupid like this, falling in love with someone who probably thinks of him as a child, even though he’s seventeen and about to sit his A-Levels.

The chair creaks as he sits down, sinks a bit as he draws his feet up to curl into the indent Mr Pendragon’s left by dint of having sat in it for a year. Merlin reaches for the blazer collar and pulls the deep black coat over himself like a blanket, revelling in Arthur’s smell—Arthur, he can say Arthur when there’s no one around to hear him savour the name in his mouth like a chocolate kiss. Arthur’s unique sweat, the cologne he probably dabs under his ears every morning, a hint of the toast and tea he must’ve had—though Merlin’s really only indulging himself with that last one. He breathes in deeply, running gentle fingers over the silk lining of the blazer. For some reason, it just—it just feels like _home_. Ever since Arthur Pendragon walked into his classroom, Merlin’s felt an inner storm, a raging anguish he hadn’t even known _existed_ subside within him.

It’s hard to focus in Arthur’s classes. No one else has a problem looking at the fit young teacher who looks like he walked out of a sports magazine in front of a blackboard, but shy Merlin can’t glance away from his book when Arthur’s talking, can’t stop blushing when Arthur’s eyes miraculously meet his, can’t speak a sentence to him without stuttering and fiddling with his nails and trying not to think about Arthur’s eyes and his mouth and the way his shirt is always unbuttoned at the collar. Merlin’s basically one of the lovestruck girls you see in films, sad and pathetic and—ugh.

If Merlin’s world were ideal, Arthur would probably know of Merlin’s feelings. Merlin knows it’s love, because he knows what Arthur’s like outside of class, he knows Arthur is a perfect gentleman, noble even though nobility doesn’t exist in this century. Arthur is everything Merlin could ever want. And fate is cruel, sending Merlin into the world when he will never be able to be truly at peace with himself, not when the one person seemingly capable of making Merlin beam with happy tears is forever just beyond his fingertips.

If Merlin’s world were ideal, Arthur would know of Merlin’s feelings, and he’d love Merlin back. He’d treat Merlin like an equal, draw Merlin into his arms and enclose Merlin in his entire presence. He would kiss Merlin’s hair, then his temple and his cheek, making his way down to Merlin’s mouth, kissing Merlin’s entirely unremarkable lips with his own slightly chapped ones—Merlin's never seen Arthur Vaseline them, but he rather loves Arthur's mouth like this anyway, so he can wet it with his own—pecking him over and over until Merlin would unfurl in Arthur’s lap and pull him closer to kiss him deeper.

And Arthur would oblige and lick the seam of Merlin’s lips and tease him, lapping at Merlin’s tongue but always withdrawing when Merlin would throw all caution to the wind and go for it. His eyes would gleam wickedly behind his wireframe glasses, and Merlin would pull them off just to see the blue better. The stormy blue of Arthur’s eyes is so different from Merlin’s dull shade.

Merlin would pretend to give up with a sigh, go back to kissing Arthur closed-mouthed, running his fingers through Arthur’s gold hair and messing it up. Mr Pendragon never really combs his hair, though. He just strolls into class looking like he woke up and put on his specs and some brilliant clothes that’ll provide Merlin ample material to feed his reveries for the rest of the day.

Merlin sighs, shutting his eyes and completely giving in to his daydream, hugging Mr Pendragon’s snug blazer close and relaxing, feeling his skin tingle and heat.

Arthur would pull away to look at Merlin, lips wet with Merlin’s saliva, like a temporary mark of Merlin’s affection—

Merlin always reddens when Mr Pendragon looks at him. It feels like being exposed to the full force of the sun. Fuck. Merlin is head over heels in love, and he absolutely hates it. Hates it so much. His fingers bunch in Arthur’s blazer, and he presses it against himself, wishing more than anything that it were the real person instead, someone he could hug and touch and kiss, laugh with and _wank_ with and—

Merlin shivers. He’s sweaty, because the room isn’t air-conditioned (and fuck, why would it be, Mr Pendragon isn’t in it) and it’s making his skin, his hair stick to the leather. It’s all right, Merlin supposes. The scent’ll dissipate in a bit once he leaves. There’s still half an hour to go for lunchtime to end, and Merlin wants to dream happily about Arthur for just a little while more.

Arthur would pull away to look at Merlin, lips wet with Merlin’s saliva. He’d see how much Merlin needed him, so he’d stop teasing and just dive in, kissing Merlin slow and deep, tilting Merlin’s head tenderly with his warm, big hands, making Merlin tremble when he licks into Merlin’s mouth, over the ridges of his teeth, sweeping against Merlin’s tongue, the roof of his mouth, then drawing back for a breath and a quick nip at Merlin’s full lower lip before sliding his hands down Merlin’s jaw and parting his mouth with a thumb on his chin.

“Gorgeous,” he’d say, voice hoarse. “Merlin, you beautiful little thing.”

Merlin’s name always sounds best in Mr Pendragon’s voice. No one else’s voice compares. Not even his mum’s.

Merlin would blush and Arthur would think Merlin’s pretty when he blushes; he’d stare wonderingly at Merlin like he can’t believe his eyes. Merlin would loop his arms around Arthur’s shoulders and take the lead, kissing him again and again, maybe more clumsily than Arthur, but the Arthur of Merlin’s dreams accepts Merlin, doesn’t care. It’d feel so good, Merlin reckons, sniffing the blazer again, shamefully nosing at the seam between the sleeves and the wings of the coat. He’s disgusting. He’s an awful person, taking advantage of Mr Pendragon’s faith and goodwill like this. He’s despicable. He’s pathetic, loving his teacher like this. What if Mr Pendragon’s on his way right now to his office, what if he tries the door and it’s locked? There goes Merlin’s dignity.

But he still can’t leave, he can’t move, he can’t let go of the blazer. Merlin guiltily inhales Arthur’s scent again, rubbing the coat against his chest, catching it between his thighs and imagining Arthur wearing it, Arthur trapped between his legs, face pressed to Merlin’s, kissing and sucking on Merlin’s lips, breath mixing with Merlin’s until Merlin’s lightheaded, moaning with the thought that he could share something like that with Arthur.

Merlin looks at the organised mess of Mr Pendragon’s desk. Right on top of everything else is his essay. Merlin doesn’t even remember writing it. It’s some class assignment about… something or other. Merlin had spent all that time peeking glances at the alluring scene of Arthur bent over some book, long fingers pushing up his glasses, Merlin dying inside and yearning to just get up and out of his chair to walk over to Arthur and straddle him, kiss bruises into Arthur’s neck and tug at the collar of Mr Pendragon’s shirt in the fragile hope of exposing more of his collarbones for Merlin to brush his knuckles across, to bite and lick over.

Merlin traces Mr Pendragon’s handwriting with a fingertip. He’s said something nice in his feedback, as he usually does. Merlin loves Arthur so much, so, so much. It’s unbelievably tough to consider that he’ll go to university soon and never see Arthur again—or he’ll see Arthur but with someone else, someone better suited to Arthur, not a lanky beanpole like Merlin, who’s older but not old enough, ordinary and unworthy.

Then the bell rings.

Merlin freezes in absolute panic.

He springs off the chair and tosses the blazer over the back, it’s over his life’s over he’s going to get caught Mr Pendragon’s going to know how dirty Merlin is and he’ll avoid Merlin and never look at him again and never talk to him again and why are these shoes taking so bloody long to put on and the door isn’t opening, Merlin rattles it and then remembers he locked it like a fucking idiot. With shaking fingers he twists the handle to unlock the door, wrenches it open and dashes out, please don’t let Mr Pendragon be there, please don’t, please, no—

Merlin’s heart drops to his ankles and nearly gives out as he locks eyes with Arthur Pendragon, twenty feet away. There’s a crowd of students milling about on their way to class, none of whom miraculously take notice of him, but Arthur’s gaze is fixed on him, and Merlin has unmistakably just left Ar—Mr Pendragon’s office with absolute terror stark on his face.

Mr Pendragon doesn’t say anything as Merlin flees. Merlin can’t breathe anymore. At this point he hopes Mr Pendragon thinks Merlin was in there to steal something or play a prank—anything’s better than what he was really doing, anything; Merlin would gladly be suspended if it meant Mr Pendragon wouldn’t know Merlin was writhing and squirming in his seat imagining Mr Pendragon splayed across him, doing filthy things to his mouth and his jaw and his neck, hands wandering—

Merlin nearly bursts into tears with the humiliation. Somehow he returns to class, finds his way to his chair, greets his friends and makes small talk. He tries not to think about last period, when he’ll be in Mr Pendragon’s class, but it’s impossible not to—Merlin’s certain Mr Pendragon will want to talk to him afterwards, ask him what the hell had he been doing in there, what if he notices his blazer isn’t the way he left it?

Somehow Merlin persists.

All throughout last period, Merlin doesn’t dare move an inch in his seat, head bowed and eyes staring unfocused at the textbook open in front of him. Mr Pendragon’s voice washes over him but he doesn’t even try to listen, just stays still, wound tightly, ready to make a break for the door when the closing bell sounds.

But he fails, because right before it’s time, Mr Pendragon says in his lovely, gorgeous voice, “Merlin, I’d like you to stay back, there’s an issue with your essay I need to discuss.”

Merlin glances up, dreading the expression that must be on Mr Pendragon’s face. He’s taken aback when he sees absolutely nothing telling; Mr Pendragon’s face is inscrutable. He gives a shaky nod and looks back at the textbook, unseeing, when with a jerk he realises Mr Pendragon’s wearing his blazer. The blazer that Merlin wrinkled and bunched up and made unwearable.

He waits as the rest of the class files out, watching as Mr Pendragon waits, too, not taking his eyes off Merlin. Merlin blushes—it’s almost a Pavlovian response now, Mr Pendragon looks at Merlin, Merlin envisions pushing Mr Pendragon up against a wall and falling to his knees, Merlin’s cheeks betray him—and looks away.

“Merlin,” Mr Pendragon eventually says, getting up, taking his blazer off. Merlin swallows. “I’m quite sure I know what you were doing in there.”

“I’m sorry,” Merlin croaks, tears burning in his eyes. “I’m so sorry.” He hears Mr Pendragon come up to him, lets him gently pull Merlin up and out of his seat.

“Look at me,” Mr Pendragon whispers. Merlin looks up at him.

Arthur’s smiling. Merlin’s breath punches out of him, because Arthur’s smiling. It’s a sad, hopeless smile. He frames Merlin’s face in his hands. Merlin’s heart starts beating again. “I’m also sure you want this, but I’m going to ask anyway—” Arthur starts but then Merlin’s dragged him down for a kiss already.

Arthur kisses him wildly, desperately, and it’s everything Merlin imagined but so much more; he goes limp in Arthur’s firm hold on him. Arthur’s mouth is hot and his glasses dig into Merlin’s cheek. The cold metal of his thumb ring brushes against the corner of Merlin’s mouth and Merlin shudders and buries his fingers in Arthur’s hair, wondering what they look like, wrapped around each other and loathe to let go, kissing again and again and again, clashing as if they were simply meant to be. Merlin doesn’t try to go past whatever intangible boundary Arthur’s set, even as Arthur moans and sighs against Merlin’s lips. He just responds as fully as he can, trying to sear this memory into his brain because this, this is and will forever be the best kiss of Merlin’s life.

It ends before Merlin’s ready, but Merlin was never going to be ready.

Arthur rests his forehead against Merlin’s for just a moment, staring into Merlin’s eyes with the utmost despair. And right then, Merlin _knows_. He just knows.

“I love you,” he whispers.

Arthur kisses him again and lets him go.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope your read was enjoyable, though I'm sure the writing quality is *waves hand around vaguely* awful


End file.
